[This is the third in a series of articles of the experiences of a Columbus youth in the army of the Spanish Loyalists, written by Samuel Levinger, who died in Madrid last week from wounds suffered at the Spanish front. The articles were transcribed from pencilled notes by his mother, Mrs. Lee J. Levinger, 2257 Indianola-av.]
Barcelona has almost a million inhabitants, not counting many thousands of refugees from parts of Spain captured by the Fascists; I think most of the million turned out to cheer us. I don't know where they got the energy - recruits for the International Brigades had been marching through the streets ever since those black November days when Franco was announcing he would eat supper in Madrid a certain night.
In Barcelona, Durruti, the Anarchist leader, was leaving with his column for Madrid. He never returned. The first great wave of workers from every country marched through the streets of Barcelona - singing. It was the Spanish people that saved Madrid, not the International Brigades - that General Klever himself has testified - but the moral effect on the Spaniards who had been fighting world Fascism almost alone was vast and telling.
I thought Barcelona a beautiful city. Although it was winter, flower stalls lined the streets; the men wore flowers in their button-holes, the women in their hair. We marched, I regret to say, very badly. Six men and the sergeant all insisted on giving the step - and they couldn't all be right. But the crowds cheered just the same, so everybody was happy.
We marched to Republican headquarters where a man gave a speech in Spanish and the band played. We marched to the headquarters of the United Socialists where a man gave a speech in Spanish. We marched to the headquarters of the C. N. T., the confederation of trade unions, and to the headquarters of the U. G. T., the federation under Marxist leadership.
Then we marched to the barracks and ate a good deal. Marching at our head with a banner was a pretty blonde girl, quite young. She was one of the leaders of the JSU, the Unified Socialist youth, which has had such a tremendous growth during the war.
She had fought at Madrid and been wounded. Now she wanted to go back, but the government had withdrawn all women from the trenches. The reason is rather interesting. At the sight of a dead or wounded woman, particularly a woman hit by an explosive bullet, many of the soldiers lost all sense of danger, charging into blazing machine guns; a soldier without a sense of danger is a poor soldier.
After dinner we marched back to the train for Valencia. The marching was much improved; orders had been issued that only the sergeant should give the step. The ride from Barcelona to Valencia took us till midnight. The scenery was beautiful, the population enthusiastic, the crowded hard seats of the train extremely uncomfortable. As all this was as we had suspected, nobody was surprised or complained.
Valencia, to us is a huge railway station covered by a glass roof, where we ate at midnight. We never got to see the present capital of the Spanish republic, said to be one of the most beautiful cities in Spain. It was there that we were first formally introduced to the big Spanish yellow pea called galbonim, which with rice and lentils has always formed the staple of the Spanish worker's diet. They tasted fine then, with vino and bread; later we learned that one dish of yellow peas tastes very much like another, and that in time galbonim gets monotonous.
Half a dozen young Spaniards got on the train with us. One wore captain's strips; three were corporals, two privates. They were officials and delegates to one of the youth organizations; they had gotten leave from their battalions in the trenches around Madrid to attend the national conference of the organizations. That's how conferences are held in Spain today - the delegates rush in from the front, there is a furious discussion for a day and a night and the next day with hardly a let-up, and then, the work of the conference accomplished, back they rush to the trenches.
Only youth could hold to a schedule like that; it is the youth of Spain which has supplied the volunteers, the shock troops and much of the leadership.
We started for Albacete, hundreds of miles in the interior, headquarters of the International Brigades. Our leaders suspected that there might be spies and we took turns standing watch over the doors at each end of the trains.
And always there was somebody ready with a wisecrack. Later, during the Sierra campaign the Americans got the name among the International Brigaders [sic] of always finding something to laugh at. Where the bombs were falling the thickest one would hear somebody proposing gravely to catch the planes with flypaper, or calling for the end of the round, or something equally crazy.
A good many people considered us rather "loco"; but we never found that it affect our worth as soldiers, and one generally feels better laughing than waiting in tense silence for something to hit him.
Morning showed us quite a different scene from the luxuriant Valencia coast. This was typical central Spain - rough hills, gray and dotted with rocks, with here and there a bright perfectly flat valley pieced [sic] by a small stream.
Passing an airfield we saw for the fist time the government fighting planes in the air. I had seen plenty of planes at home; but here was nothing like the staid passenger ships. In formations thy [sic] swooped, dived, climbed at incredible angles, passed over the horizon like a stone from a sling. Some of the happiest moments I have spent in Spain were watching these little things swirl around the sky, fighting off twice their number of pursuit ships and smashing the back Junker bombers on the hillsides. The Spanish newspapers call them "cazas" which means "hunters."
We were a stiff, cramped bunch when we finally got out oat Albacete. Peddlers crowded around us to sell us trench lighters and huge knives. The trench lighter, a flint and steel affair, is a wonder invention. The spark lights a bright orange rope which be me of any length. Some of the Spanish soldiers wear 20 feet of it wrapped around their waists - it adds color to the landscape. If it is a good lighter, one or two flicks sets it glowing ready to light either a cigaret or a fusebomb. One man in a trench with a stoack [sic] of fuse bombs and a lighter can do a lot of good before the attacking force can close with him.
As for the big knives, most of us considered them extra junk, and only the dudes bought them. When we got up to the lines we found that the dudes had been right. The clumsy things were fine for chopping firewood and opening ammunition cases. They were very handy when one was out in the field and wanted a few feet of earth in front to stop the machine gun bullets. Most important, they were splendid weapons for night patrols, where rifles with bayonets are bulky. Many a patrol has gone out at midnight armed only with hand gernades [sic] and these knives.
We marched through the streets of Albacete to the barracks, where we ate. Albacete is the headquarters of the International Brigades and the birthplace of Franco.
Dinner finished, we and our bags squeezed into trucks and just as it got dark we swept off to some unknown destination. I do not wish to speak of that truck-ride in detail. The crowding was terrific - it was impossible to move a hand without somebody groaning. Then the driver of our truck got lost. He would call out for directions, then precipitately back down steep hills at a high rate of speed, as if full of terror. We knew vaguely that we were going to a training camp, but we had no idea where the front was; I for one was ready at any minute to see rifles sticking through the canvas and to hear curt voices ordering us to climb out.
After dozens of hours some one hailed us in American. The truck jerked to a stop. "Anybody here from Philadelphia?" "Any longshoremen here?" Boys pulled us out of the truck, clapped us on the backs, asked which truck Bill Smith of Brooklyn was on, grabbed our bags and hauled them in. We had arrived at the Lincoln Battalion!
[TOMORROW: Soldier Samuel Levinger, continuing his journal of an American youth on the Spanish front, tells of his training period behind the lines and some of the things he learned of the feelings of the people.]